


The Passage Back

by sunspeared



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, F/M, Grey Wardens, Here Lies the Abyss, M/M, Multi, Open Relationships, Post-Trespasser, Skyhold, the kids are all right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-01 22:46:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6539599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunspeared/pseuds/sunspeared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well after Corypheus's defeat, Zevran and the Warden visit Skyhold to find out what happened to the exiled Grey Wardens after Adamant, to reconnect with an old friend, and to make some new ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Passage Back

**Author's Note:**

> There are no excuses for this. s/o to irrumatrix, who held my hand and told me I was handsome and strong while writing this.

_9:46 Dragon._

*

Years ago, in some miserable little Nevarran backwater town known to contain an entrance to the Deep Roads, Leliana's spies had tracked them down with a pretty letter from the Inquisition's ambassador, asking for their aid. Zevran had switched out Surana's _What the fuck do you need to dig up an old relic like me for? Piss off, I'm busy_ with a far more polite note.

They had heard nothing from the Inquisition since. It had taken five years for Surana's curiosity to be roused _—_ for her single-minded quest to come to an end _—_ and now, here they were, in the Frostbacks once more, past the wreck of Haven.

"Before I announce myself, I want to see what they're about," Surana said, leaning on her staff and looking over the troop encampment in the valley. "They say they stand for Thedas. They say they only want to do good works."

"You don't believe them?"

"I think," she said, "that we saved the world once, and we've got plenty to hide about how we did it."

She touched Zevran's shoulder, offhandedly, and warmth flooded him _—_ for a moment. She was conserving her mana. The roads to Skyhold were known by all travelers to be utterly safe. Nowhere was safe, of course. The terrain was rocky, and invited ambushes as a square jaw invited a right hook. It was simply not worth bandits' lives to ply their trade so close to the Inquisition's doorstep.

"We will need cover stories," Zevran said. He did not like the plan, but he had followed her into worse places. Still, better to burn down the gate and _demand_ what she wished to know of the Inquisition. That was his Warden, he thought, taking her hand and setting off down the hill. Decisive. Firm. A force of personality that allowed her to simply walk in the front door anywhere they chose. One look at the staff, and the armor, and the obvious willingness to simply go through any gatekeeper who would not let them by, opened a great many avenues that might otherwise have been closed to an elf. Fifteen years _—_ more, even _—_ and Zevran had never grown tired of watching her in action.

"We met in Denerim. You were serving aboard a _galeon_ , I was a..." She frowned.

"Famed courtesan," Zevran offered. "I sampled your favors once, and persuaded you to run away with me."

The very tip of Surana's own nose was red from cold, but she was bred for mountains, or else she was keeping herself warm. "Ferelden doesn't have courtesans, it has wenches. I was a mercenary, looking for a way out of the alienage. I took passage aboard your ship. We had at one another until we couldn't see straight, and got married in Amaranthine."

And that settled it, for now. The moment real deception was required, it would all fall apart, and then it would be left to Zevran to talk their way out of the mess.

Surana laced their fingers together. "We'll need to avoid Leliana, too," she said.

"Of course," he said.

"Do you think she'll recognize us?"

"Immediately."

 _Do you think she misses us?_ was what she meant. But she would never say so.

*

They had come into Ferelden by way of Amaranthine, where those who had lived through the city's near-sacking still doffed their caps to Surana when they saw her on the streets, and recognized Zevran as a fellow Warden _—_ he had never taken the Joining, though he wore the armor when he lived at the Vigil _—_ and stopped over at Soldier's Peak, where the Wardens who had not heeded Clarel's orders had gone into hiding.

The two of them might have taken a fireball to the face in greeting, had Surana not dissipated it with an irritated flick of her wrist and sent a larger one back at Velanna. _That_ was more than an adequate calling card to leave at the door, and Zevran stood back, watched as the dozen crossbows and staves pointed at them from the ramparts were lowered, at some unseen signal.

"Your _eye_ ," Velanna began, once they were safe in the great hall.

"We were exploring some ruins. A rock fell on my head," Surana said.

It was an understatement. There was a deep, angry scar bisecting her eyebrow, and her eye was cloudy white, now. They had gone to an old fortress in the Vimmark Mountains, the very one Corypheus himself had been loosed from, to see if there were any documents that had passed out of the Grey Wardens' remembering along with the prison itself.

When they encountered a stray group of genlocks, Surana had brought a wall down on them, rather than waste her mana in a proper fight, when something more terrible might be lurking in the bowels of the prison, and had miscalculated the age of the walls, and how much she might break. It was, all told, one of the least unpleasant maimings Zevran had ever borne witness to, and still he changed her dressings himself, watched her for signs of wound-rot in the weeks afterward.

Velanna reached out, her palm glowing, faintly. Surana nodded, and whatever Velanna did, it made the line of her shoulders relax, just a fraction.

"We're only staying a night," Surana said, then, and handed over the pack of books she had slung over her shoulder to Velanna. "These are my findings on the Calling. Review my notes; you, I, and the mages, will speak them when I return. How many did we lose to Clarel's madness?"

"Not as many as we might have," said Sigrun. She looked grim, as she had never been grim when he and Surana left them. Nathaniel, standing behind the two of them with his arms crossed, had not said a word since his commander's arrival. "But we figured that when we all started hearing the Calling, " she went on, "without you around to scream her off when she came around the Vigil looking for 'volunteers,' we should lay low until whatever she was planning blew over."

"The Inquisitor." _Now_ Nathaniel spoke. "She exiled the Orlesian Wardens. A few groups showed up in Amaranthine, looking for sanctuary, but they deserted well before Adamant. We've had no news of the rest."

Surana nodded. This was nothing the two of them had not heard, even so far away as they'd been. Zevran held his peace. Holed up in the mountains for years, waiting for a commander who might or might not return _—_ Zevran could not say he had not suffered at her side, but he had never had to _wait_ for her for so long.

"We're headed to Skyhold next," Surana said. "Zevran, see to our room. You three, to my office."

The rest of the Wardens, at least, were less tense, and eager to hear of the Warden-Commander's travels. They trailed after him with fresh linens and pots of tea, to listen to him tell of the old prison in the Vimmark Mountains _—_ the vast, dusty halls of Weisshaupt, which nearly all of them would die without ever having seen _—_ the Antivan Wardens' island fortress, and its records of Blights past.

None of them asked whether their Commander had found a cure for the Calling. They'd all learn soon enough. She would never tell them _—_ that she did it for Zevran as much as all of them. When her time came, Zevran would follow her into the Deep Roads without question. It was that simple. She had tried to dissuade him, to command him, and had failed.

"We're home," Surana said, that night, with her head nestled in the crook of his shoulder. Their bed had been designed with humans in mind; it was too large for even two elves to fill. Still, each of them had grown up sleeping on narrow bunks, in rooms full of children who had been bought and sold, in some way or another. Only the details were different. "We can stay for a week," she added, more softly. "More, if you're tired."

Soldier's Peak was not _home_. It was, for the second time, a final fallback for the Grey Wardens. Their years at Vigil's Keep were as close as Zevran had ever come to peace, bar the expeditions in the Deep Roads, and the occasional need to travel to the Free Marches and eliminate some former brother or sister in the Crows who'd gotten it into their head that they might advance themselves by killing the only one of their order to ever escape.

But he did not know that Surana had _ever_ been at peace, even with him by her side. Too restless. Too busy looking for any escape. The Wardens were as close as she had ever gotten to a family, and she could not wait to leave them.

"Skyhold will still be there in a month," Zevran said. "Sleep."

*

"Inquisitor Adaar's off dealing with some rifts," the elf, Charter _—_ an _elf_ was in charge of something here _—_ interviewing them said. Surana's surprise was better-veiled, even when a human came in to ask this Charter for her signature on something. "We've a position for a runner, and the tavern has need of a new bartender."

"Despite his chatter, he's good for something other than running his mouth," Surana said. "I'm for the tavern, ser. I can toss drunks out on their ears with the best of 'em."

It was an extravagant claim, for such a small woman to make. Zevran could see that she moved like a killer, knew, in great detail, that every inch of her was muscled, after so many years of fighting and traveling. He had stood well back and watched her summon firestorms. But Charter must have seen something of it _—_ the missing eye spoke of a familiarity with violence, if nothing else _—_ and she did not argue the point.

"Not so many want to work for the Inquisition, these days," said Charter. "We answer to Divine Victoria, but Most Holy lets us do what we want. Less new recruits means it's easier for us to vet the ones who come to us. Thoroughly. Where'd you say you worked, in Amaranthine?"

"The Crown and Lion," Surana said. "You shouldn't have any trouble authenticating my letter of referral."

 _Authenticating_ was a scholarly word. It, and her hauteur when she said it, did not fit the simple Fereldan bumpkin Surana had been trying her damnedest to portray. She had never learned, never _needed_ to infiltrate anything. But before Charter could think too hard on this, the door behind the two of them opened, without so much as a polite knock.

"Charter," Leliana said, behind the two of them. Zevran did not dare turn and look. His hair was much longer than it had been, the last time they'd met, and Surana was shorter than the back of her chair _—_ and humans, even observant humans, never looked very hard at unfamiliar elves. "I summoned you to the rookery an hour ago. Scout Harding and I are waiting. Have Miller take them to their room, and come with me."

Charter flushed an angry shade of red about the ears and excused herself.

Miller, the agent who took them to their rooms, was a chatty human, but she said nothing of substance about the corridors of Skyhold she led them through. The servants' quarters were in the bowels of the mountain. There was a communal bath at the end of the hall, she said, with a furtive glance at Surana. Miller seemed like a bright young thing, and bright young things could not resist Surana's air of authority, which she exuded even when silent. Even Zevran still fell for the little frown, the cocked eyebrow: _Yes, and is that all you have to impress me with? Try again._

Their room was spare and dusty, but luxurious, compared some of the places they'd stayed on the road. At the very least, there was a slit of a window, looking down on the mountainside. After a year of living in a tent, and many, many more years of travel, Zevran no longer had standards.

"Close call," Surana said. "How'd I do?"

"Wonderful." But for the part where she nearly blew their cover before it was established. No matter; he was smooth enough for both of them. He set his pack down on the ground and tested the bed. "Home. Shall we break it in?"

*

Another homecoming:

They were carrying the last of the bodies out of the portcullis when Zevran arrived at Vigil's Keep: half-starved peasants in boiled leather, at best. Rags, at worst. A few prisoners sat against the keep's wall, faces in hands, under the care of a guard who was quite clearly looking for an excuse to gut them.

Barbaric. In Antiva, they would have been put the sword already.

He managed to slip past the walls, through the gate, the makeshift pyre and mourning families, and the stables, before he felt a hand clap down on his shoulder. "You there, elf." A blond man in chainmail spun Zevran around to face him. "What are you doing here?"

"I have an appointment with the Warden-Commander," he said, giving the man his most unthreatening smile. He was an elf, he was not (visibly) armed, his clothes were covered in dust from the road. Why, with his satchel, he could have been any lowly courier. "My name is _—_ "

"Tell it to the Warden-Commander," the man said, and twisted Zevran's arm behind his back, to frog-march him to the castle gates. Zevran could have broken free, if he so wished. As manhandlings went, Zevran had had far better at the hands of far more handsome men. It needed more spark. More fire. For all he knew, Zevran was an assassin come to plunge his blade into the Warden-Commander, which, in truth, he was, after a fashion. No matter.

Warden-Commander Surana sat on the steps beneath the castle's gates, surrounded by a gaggle of blue-and-silver garbed Wardens and wiping peasant blood off of her blade. Her own armor was covered in what Zevran knew intimately to be darkspawn blood, as were three of her fellows'. They had not been home long, then, before the attack.

The man shoved him to his knees at the base of the steps.

"Yes, Captain?" Surana said, sheathing her blade and handing it off to a waiting page. She accepted her staff from yet another page, and the boys ran off to the depths of the castle. Zevran looked up at her and managed a wink before the soldier clouted him on the head.

"I found this" _—_ he heard the pause as the man swallowed the _knife-ear_ he'd been thinking, as did Surana, no doubt _—_ "man sneaking 'round the stables, Warden-Commander, ser. He said he was looking for you, ser."

"My plan was to find your bedchambers and arrange myself artistically on your bed, surrounded by rose petals," Zevran said, "nude, of course. But it was not to be."

The captain kicked him in rear hard enough to send him sprawling in the dirt. There were persons on whom all of his considerable charm was wasted, and the farther south he went, the more of them he found. "You are addressing the Commander of the Grey," the old human said.

"Captain Garevel," said Surana. "Seneschal." All of the Wardens were staring at him as one, as though they could not decide whether they were in for a fight or not, and then they saw Surana's face.

She was smiling. How devastating it was, when a beautiful woman who never smiled turned her face upon you, how like the sun coming out from behind the clouds; Zevran could not blame them for being unprepared. An age could pass, and he would still be awed.

"This is Zevran Arainai, one of my associates. He was at my side when I killed the archdemon," she said. And then she stopped. She let the silence stretch, until all of the humans, at least, were fidgeting. "If you will all recall."

"I'm sorry, Warden-Commander," Garevel said, "I didn't know, no word was sent _—_ "

Surana shook her head minutely. Garevel stopped speaking, as quickly as he'd started. She had always been a _presence_ , but leadership had made her regal. "He's a month early," she said.

"I believe this is the part where the beautiful and dashing Warden-Commander orders me washed and brought to her tent," Zevran whispered loudly. One of the Wardens, he could not tell which, snorted. Excellent. At least one of them had a sense of humor.

"I thought he'd be taller," the dwarf warden said, and the human next to her nudged the side of her head with his elbow. _Shut up, you featherwit_ , the gesture said. The Dalish woman next to the human scowled and elbowed him in the ribs, in turn: _By the Creators, don't draw attention to us_. And the last human, the mage, shook his head: _You've done it now_. It was too late, of course; Zevran had taken notice of them. It was difficult, with the love of his life staring down at him, but he managed.

Surana ignored them all, and descended the stairs to offer Zevran her leather-gloved hand. He took it, and so only had one hand with which to set his clothing to rights. Her grip was as strong as he remembered, and this close, he could see the lines of strain on her dirty face, the long white scar across her neck that had not been there when he left her six months ago, the dark circles under her wide brown eyes.

"Seneschal, see Zevran settled in my quarters," she said, not taking her eyes from Zevran's face. The smile had faded, as it always did when she became _commanding_. "Nathaniel, see to the burnings. Sigrun, brief Anders and Captain Garevel on what we found in Kal'Hirol. Velanna, with me."

To their credit, none of the humans seemed to balk at taking orders from an elf, but none of them moved. "My dear Warden," Zevran murmured. "They cannot do any of this unless you let me go. This... display of affection is shocking their delicate Ferelden sensibilities."

She turned to face him, and, before all of her troops (all four of them) she threw her arms around his waist and buried her face in his shoulder. "I missed you," she said, into the cloth of his shirt.

Six months, and he had not forgotten the texture of her hair aginst his cheek. She was less substantial than his arms, in her armor, than he remembered. The thought _—_ that she had not been eating enough, that the weight of duty was chewing the flesh from her bones _—_ filled him with an unexpected and violent tenderness. Her arms slackened, but he cupped the back of her head and held her for one moment longer. Just one.

Then he let go. Surana pressed the backs of her hands to her cheeks and adjusted her Warden blues, as though their embrace had been a hurried tryst in the bushes. From their audience's expressions, it may well have been.

Composed, she turned around and clapped her hands twice. The Wardens snapped to attention as one. There was nothing like a woman with authority, Zevran thought, watching their suddenly-perfect postures and unwavering gazes. "One more thing," Surana said. "Have a Chantry sister summoned."

"A _Chantry_ sister?" the Dalish woman asked.

"You heard me. A Chantry sister, on the double," she said. "We're getting married."

* * *

When the Chargers and the Valo-Kas visited Skyhold separately, it was an occasion; when they visited simultaneously, it was a disaster. Yes, it was a matter for much swooning, from the servant's quarters to the parapets, but Shokrakar inevitably demanded their best, most luxurious guest quarters, and became convinced that Josie was holding out on her. The big Tal-Vashoth who wrote poetry had already ousted Maryden from her spot in the tavern to declaim his works, and it was only a matter of hours before Cabot petitioned to have him removed.

"And remind Skinner," Leliana said, laying down a fresh sheet of paper, "what happened the last time she started a brawl."

Leliana had never been able to find a more reliable teacher of qunlat, and when Bull was at Skyhold with the Chargers, she practiced with him. He was a good teacher, a comforting presence, far removed from her world. Besides _—_ two old spies, ill-used by many hands, had much to speak of. Never in detail. But there was an understanding between them.

"Speaking of elves, you hired two new one," Bull said, rather than address _the incident_. "Arrived at Skyhold together, said they were married. One's a runner, one works in the tavern. The one in the tavern's not used to following orders. She's got this little" _—_ he twitched his massive shoulders, screwed up his face in disgust _—_ "every time someone tells her to hurry up with their drinks."

"And you think they're Solas's people?"

Under her own nose. Under her _own nose_. Were Josie here, she would tell her she was not omniscient, and could not root out every enemy at their gate, but Josie was not.

"Nah," Bull replied, settling back in his seat and lacing his fingers over his belly. "She's not good enough at this. _He_ is. Antivan, almost got the drop on me when he delivered my letters. I've only met knew a few people who could do that, and one of them was a Crow. Not that I want to jump to conclusions."

A Crow, an elf, at Skyhold. With another elf. The world was not large enough for coincidences. Leliana set aside her quill, lest Bull see the sudden tremor in her hands.

"Do either of them have any identifying marks?" she asked.

"Tattoos on the man's face. Woman's blind in one eye. It's recent. She still hesitates on stairs, pours drinks slowly."

The world was _not_ so large. Zevran and the Warden, Zevran and _Surana_ , back from searching for a cure to the Calling. And they had not come to see her. The last time she'd seen Surana in person had been years and years ago: a clandestine meeting between representatives of the Divine and representatives of Weisshaupt, among others, to settle some unfortunate business between Orlais and the Anderfels. Surana had at least been happy to see Leliana, then. Cordial _—_ tired, and preoccupied with her good-natured sniping with Warden-Commander Clarel _—_ but glad.

They had their reasons, she was sure. That did not mean it didn't sting.

"Keep watching them," Leliana said. "And keep this between us, Bull."

*

"Do you know," Zevran said, unbuckling his breastplate at the end of his day and tossing it on their bed, "that no one has called me a knife-ear, even once? Maybe they even think of me as a person."

"Then they're thinking it," said Surana. She came up behind him, put her arms around her waist, rested her cheek on his back. She worked late at the tavern, and came back to their room in the small hours of the morning, stinking of ale; they had a few stolen moments in their day, if that, to debrief one another. And then to _debrief_ one another. "I saw Leliana today. In the library. I was on the bottom level, looking at those murals, and she was right above me, arguing with some archivist. She's..."

Zevran had seen her, too. Straight-spined, wan, and very sharp. "Not so different from us, I think."

"No." She pressed a kiss to his spine, and he shivered, arched his back, encouraging her upward, downward, wherever she wished. "Have you found anything interesting?"

"Nothing but gossip. The kitchens _—_ a scullery boy got one of the bakers pregnant," he said. "The night messengers aren't speaking to the day messengers. Mercenaries have arrived, and everyone is bending at the waist. Nothing on the Wardens. I have asked, and no one wishes to speak of them. I think no one knows."

Those who had been with the Inquisition for years and years loved it and were devoted to it with their whole hearts; he could find no one to turn, and hardly anyone dissatisfied enough to let slip Skyhold's secrets. He had thought of seducing Charter, or that dwarven scout, the one who was in some kind of competition with her; but the two of them were too highly ranked to let something slip, and nothing would come of it but an interesting night. Surana did not care about any of this, she had no interest in spycraft; she would reveal herself to Leliana eventually, and wring the truth from her then.

"Do you think they're dead?" Surana asked. He could feel her breath, hot against his back. The minute tightening of her arms.

"No," said Zevran, closing his hand over hers. "I hear nothing but good, of the Inquisitor. Even a bad leader, who rules through fear _—_ you can see cracks around the edges, where people are too afraid to speak ill of her. She is a merciful woman. We will not be finding bodies of our Wardens hidden in some valley, at least."

There would be signs of such a thing. They might have even seen it on their way to Skyhold. If he was wrong about the Inquisitor, a woman who was more legend than person, at this point (much like Surana), if they _did_ find evidence of a slaughter of Wardens... Zevran had been wrong before. It would not be the end of the world. What Surana might do afterward, however, concerned him.

Whatever Surana was thinking, she nuzzled the space between his shoulderblades _—_ she was in the mood for a thorough debriefing, he thought, turning slowly in her arms. "You will think of me tonight, when the drunks tell you how beautiful you are? When some soldier who has been buying you whiskeys all night tries to catch you after your shift?"

"Give me something to think on, and I may."

"Or a pretty chambermaid will make cow-eyes at you, and pluck up the courage to ask what happened to your face. Or _—_ hmm. That Miller. She'll happen upon you in your bath."

"Zevran," she said, grabbed him between the legs, firmly, to march him backward toward their miserable little bed. "We only have twenty minutes. Get it done."

"Yes, Warden-Commander," he said, and fell on his back.

*

Josephine had one year left in her contract. One year of adventure, of having been the most sought-after diplomat in Thedas, before she returned to managing her family's enterprises. It would be a relief. She was lucky, she knew, to have a life to return to. Even Cullen spoke of leaving, now, of handing the reins to Rylen or Ser Briony, and establishing a haven for wayward templars _—_ Josephine had a parcel of land, a large farm, an unproductive asset, that she was willing to lease to him for a _very_ reasonable price _—_ and she would present him with a contract at the end of their terms of service, as a gift.

Leliana would never leave. Leliana would stay at Skyhold until the job killed her, and nothing any of them did or said could pry her from it.

That did not mean Josephine thought Leliana beyond hope. It did not mean she could not bring her a bit of joy, from time to time. Fortunately, a gift had presented itself to Josephine, and had given her a number of inappropriate winks, to boot.

Queen Moira, the elderly raven Leliana had given Cullen for a pet, squawked at Josephine as she entered his office. (The mabari was nowhere to be seen. Small mercies.) She ran a finger down its beak, avoided its attempt to snap at her fingers, and turned to face Cullen, who had not yet acknowledged her. It was a game they played: what would it take for Josephine to get his attention?

"Cullen," she said, perching on his desk. _That_ got his attention. He did not look up from his paperwork; he had not touched the pot of tea he'd been sent. Josephine made a production of pouring it for him, and setting the saucer directly on the report he'd been reading.

"Josie," he said, and it had taken years for his ears to not turn red at addressing her with such familiarity. But today was a good day, for him. It had been a good week, even. His nails weren't ragged from biting, and he seemed well-rested. "Here's a letter for you, from Dorian."

She took it, but did not break the seal; it wasn't meant for _her._ "There is," she said, tucking the envelope into her pocket, "an Antivan Crow skulking about Skyhold."

Cullen's hand flew to his sword. "You're sure?"

"I know a Crow when I see one, Cullen. Calm down." She stood to inherit a cell of them from a wealthy aunt, who mostly used them as gardeners. What she would do with them when she got them was another matter entirely. "He's posing as one of our runners, and somehow he made it past Charter."

"You come to me with this, and not Leliana."

"I was thinking... we could give him to her. As a nice surprise. If we surprise him, you should be more than sufficient to handle it, don't you think?"

A little appeal to his ego, and he was finished. "And if she's simply waiting to move on him?"

Josephine had considered that, but none of Leliana's people had been following the elf at the discreet distance that meant he was a threat, and that Josephine should avoid him. It was possible that he was here to do his work, or that he was an agent of Solas's, or that he had retired _—_ no. No one _retired_ fromthe Crows.

"If Leliana knew he was here," she said, "he would be sitting in one of the luxurious interrogation rooms I officially know nothing about. Yes?"

"Yes," Cullen said.

"And don't you think she's been a bit gloomy lately, pitting Charter and Scout Harding against one another for the title of heir apparent?"

He rolled his eyes. Queen Moira squawked once more and shuffled on her perch, as though affronted at Cullen's lack of regard for his colleague. "She's been insufferable."

"If nothing else, it will make her smile. Also," she said, "tell Iron Bull I need to speak with him, if you see him before I do."

*

Here, now, another blond man _—_ in far nicer armor _—_ manhandled Zevran, snatched him from his usual route from the armory to the fields, and dragged him into small room.

He had moved up in the world. No mere guard-captain had abducted him this time, but the commander of the Inquisition's forces himself. A former templar, they said. Fereldan, they said, and confirmed in the same Circle Surana had come from. And then they went on to speculate whether he had taken up with the spymaster (unlikely!), the Inquisitor herself (no, no, everyone knew her for a lover of women), 'that one snooty elf bloke what disappeared after Corypheus got our boot up his ass, you know, lived in the library basement?' (generally agreed upon by all present as unappealing to even _think_ about), or the ambassador.

The ambassador, Lady Josephine Montilyet of Antiva City, who kept treats on her desk for messengers, who was a vision in gold, and was waiting for them in the room. She watched, and said nothing, as the commander frisked Zevran _—very_ thoroughly _—_ for weapons, managed to find two of his four daggers, threw Zevran down in the chair.

The room had two doors. He was not an old man yet, but in his younger days, he might have been fast enough to get around a slow, armored man and a woman who was not a fighter. For the moment, he was content to see what they wished to say. Eventually, Surana would burst through the door looking him. She always came, when he was in danger.

"You're a Crow," the commander began, crossing his arms over his breastplate.

"Ah, this is a common mistake you humans make," Zevran said, slowly. "I'm an _elf_ , you see."

This earned him a backhand across the face. Another time, Zevran might have enjoyed it. Lady Montilyet came forward and put one hand on the commander's wrist, shook her head. "There's no call for that, Cullen," she said, and he withdrew immediately.

The man was a lackey. Of course he was. All men were lackeys, in the presence of Antivan women. _She_ was the key to Zevran's release. He closed his eyes and averted his gaze.

"Maker's breath, Josephine, don't look at me like that, I didn't even hit him hard," said the commander.

"We are in the presence of a _goddess_ , ser," Zevran said. "Surely, the sight of her overawes you as it does me."

"That's none of your business _—_ "

"Oh, don't listen to him," Lady Montilyet interrupted. "In a moment he'll begin talking about the perfect clarity of my grey eyes, my fine mouth, and my gleaming, well-kept hair. I have heard it all before. Ser Crow, we have not bound your hands. I have every confidence that you won't try anything" _—_ even if he _had_ meant to try something, her absolute assurance he would not might have quashed his desire to do so _—_ "and we have only hit you once. We only wish to know your business here, and whether we should recommend that our spymaster be merciful when she comes to collect you."

Zevran peeked, and saw that the commander's face was a very fetching shade of pink. But before he could make an unforgettable remark, Leliana, with the largest qunari Zevran had seen this side of Rivain at her heels, burst through one of the doors.

"Oh," Leliana said, "oh, Josie, there has been a misunderstanding _—_ "

And through the other door, Surana came, with a ball of crackling lightning in one hand and a sword in the other, and Andraste pity the poor fool who had tried to keep her from the sword. "If you have harmed a hair on his head," she said, "a _single hair—_ "

"My love," Zevran said, before the commander could do something unfortunate. "I believe some mistakes have been made."

"Josie, Cullen," Leliana added quickly, "Allow me to present to you the Commander of the Grey, the Hero of Ferelden, Neria Surana, and her, shall we say _—_ "

"Companion. Paramour," Zevran offered. "Love-morsel,' but only on holidays."

" _Husband_ ," Surana said.

" _—_ Zevran Arainai."

"Ah," the ambassador said. "And here we thought to hand you a Crow as a gift."

"She has more than enough ravens, after all," the commander added, and looked very proud of his witticism. The qunari behind Leliana, at least, snickered. "We'll, ah, leave you to it. Sister Leliana. Warden-Commander. Josephine, if you will." And he rushed from the room.

Surana lowered her sword and put out her lightning.

"My sincerest apologies, Warden-Commander," the ambassador said. "If we had known you were here, we might have prepared an appropriate welcome, and would never have taken your..."

"I prefer 'paramour,'" Zevran whispered, loudly. "It sounds scandalous."

"That's the point," said Surana. "I'm not here for ceremony. Go find Cullen. I'm sure he's gotten better at running away, these days."

Whatever that meant. Lady Montilyet, who finally seemed to get it through her head that there would be no polite small-talk with the Hero of Ferelden, gave her a small bow, and said, "Of course, Warden-Commander."

Surana turned to the qunari. "You," she went on, looking up _—_ very high up _—_ at him. "We haven't been introduced. Leliana?"

"This is Iron Bull, of the Bull's Chargers," Leliana said. "A mercenary of great reknown, and a former agent of the Ben-Hassrath."

Zevran could not see this man going incognito anywhere in Thedas. He could, however, see him going undercover. He glanced at Surana, flicked his eyes toward the Bull. _Yes, my love,_ said her little nod. _Have at_. _Invite me along, if he's any good._

"Leliana and I have business," said Surana. "I'll see you later."

It was abrupt, but there was no disguising her eagerness. What had passed between her and Leliana was long-finished, but that did not mean there was no room for new and interesting feelings.

"I thought no one left the Ben-Hassrath alive," Zevran said, once they were alone.

"And here I thought nobody got out of the Crows in in less than two pieces," Iron Bull replied, a slow smile creeping across his face, "but here we both are, huh?"

* * *

Zevran found the Iron Bull in the tavern, drinking alone. This was how Zevran would have arranged himself to be discovered, if he suspected he was to be the target of a seduction. It was early in the night, just barely past sunset; the Herald's Rest was humming with low conversation. Visiting dignitaries, come to try different fare than they might get out of Skyhold's kitchens. A dozen officers from the Inquisition's army, all seated at one long table, celebrating a name day, a wedding, something that had them all fancy dress.

And Bull himself, at a table, facing the door, back to the wall. He looked at ease, and all looked at ease with him. It was known that the Bull's Chargers had worked for the Inquisition many years ago, as shock troops and scouts, but not much more. Bull himself was enormous, scarred to within an inch of his life. The damage around his missing eye did not look as horrific as Surana's did, and yet he still covered it.

"I knew I recognized your name," Zevran said, by way of greeting. He made himself free with the seat next to Bull's. "Not just from the Chargers. The Iron Bull. There was a price on your head, a few years back. Something about dealings you'd had with rival magisters; I never understood what happened."

"Something like that. I leave off the 'the,' these days," said Bull. He gestured at the bar. "I see the Warden-Commander isn't keeping her unending vigil tonight."

"Leliana." Zevran shrugged. "She will be keeping her very late. Their memories of the Blight, and so on."

Bull snorted. He had some idea of what their 'business' was, then. "She going to announce herself?" Bull asked. "Let everyone know they got served their beer by the Hero of Ferelden?"

"The Blight was fifteen years ago. More, even. You cannot imagine how tedious the worshipful awe becomes. Tell me _—_ do the Chargers return to Skyhold often?"

"Once or twice a year," Bull said. "We work out of Nevarra, these days. It's a pain in the ass to get here, but there's always money in it. Tell me, did she find that cure for the Calling she was looking for all those years?"

Zevran could not bite back his sudden, short laugh in time. It sounded bitter, even to his ears. "That's not for me to say."

"Would you believe," said Bull, leaning in, his bulk making the chair creak, "I can't tell if that's a 'yes' or a 'no.'"

Yes, well. A Ben-Hassrath was not the only one who could hide the truth.

Zevran had killed a qunari spy before. It had been an accident, mostly: the agent, lunging for Zevran in the streets of Denerim (an incident involving a Tal-Vashoth and a box of stolen research about the Joining), had slipped in the dark, fallen on a patch of ice, and broken his neck. No handler had come to collect the body, no friend, no fellow agent. It lay on the cold streets for three days before the city guard got off its rear and came around to dispose of it. This, then, told him everything he needed to know about how the Ben-Hassrath cared for its people.

Rather than think further on that, he ordered himself a glass of water. At heart, he was still a Crow, and Crows did not drink while they worked. Slow reactions, a laugh at an inappropriate moment that gave one away to one's target _—_ mistakes made only once. It had taken so long to uncouple 'seduction' from 'job' _—_ 'sharing a tent with the Warden' from 'keeping her sated in order to prove his worth' _—_ and still he caught himself falling into his old habits.

A distraction arrived the moment he sat back down, in the form of Lady Josephine Montilyet bustling into the Herald's Rest. _Bustling_. No. She seemed to glide through the tavern, smiling at the dignitaries, stopping to pay her respects to whatever the officers were celebrating, exchanging a word with Cabot. Zevran knew full well he and Bull were her target, but he was content to watch her make her way, and a glance at Bull _—_ he was enjoying the view, too. It was her hips, Zevran decided. The suggestion of her thighs, as her skirt moved, and how pleasant it might be to be strangled by them.

Now was the time, Zevran decided, to put his hand on Bull's thigh.

Bull glanced down. "The wife's all right with this?"

 _That_ was new. In Zevrans' experience, Tal-Vashoth were remarkably simple. _Yes? Yes. Let's get to it, then._ And to bed. "We have an arrangement," he said. "Duty took us from one another many times, over the years. I went where she could not be seen with me. She went where it was too dangerous for even a trained killer to follow. And so on."

A low, sympathetic noise. "Yeah, I know what that's like."

Old training told Zevran to commiserate, to steer the conversation toward Bull's faraway love. It told him that the flicker of pain across Bull's face was calculated, to draw out Zevran's own stories. It was entirely possible there was no faraway love at all.

"Bull," Lady Montilyet said. "And _—_ Zevran. May I call you Zevran? I thought I'd find you here."

Then Lady Montilyet looked from one of them to the other. Her gaze dipped minutely, registering the angle of Zevran's arm with relation to Bull's leg, and Zevran saw the moment it dawned on her, what was happening, and what neither of them had any intention of stopping.

She sat across from them with a faint, catlike smile. That was all the flirtation they would get out of her, he was sure.

"We've had word from Magister Pavus's entourage," she said, to Bull, sliding a letter across the table to him. "He'll be arriving within the week. Do you think he'd like the green quarters?"

"Nah, give him the gold rooms," said Bull. "He had those last time. Closer to the library. The kitchens, too."

"Ah. I thought he might like to look out over the gardens. He visits us so rarely."

That a Tal-Vashoth should be an authority on a magister's preference in bedrooms _—_ Zevran was sure he'd read a filthy novel with this plotline, only there had been pirates, and much more rope.

Lady Montilyet turned her attention on Zevran. She had been right: he would have complimented the extraordinary clarity of her eyes, first, and then moved downward. The perfection of her throat, not at all marred by the faint scar there. Zevran inched his hand up Bull's thigh, to run a light touch over his cock. He knew his face was perfectly relaxed, even as his heart beat with excitement. If it was this enormous when soft, there were two options before him: that it would not be so much bigger hard, or that it would be even larger. He did hope this Magister Pavus didn't mind sharing.

"I would like to apologize for my and Commander Cullen's welcome to Skyhold," Lady Montilyet said. "We didn't have to abduct you."

Zevran shrugged, one-shouldered. "It was nothing," he said, "a reasonable assumption, on your parts. I'm only glad you didn't kill me before asking questions." For their sakes, not his. At Surana's side, he had always known he'd be avenged if he met a tragic end. "Tell me, how did you make me?"

"You reached for a little cake from my desk one day, when you were delivering a package. The two small fingers of your hands are crooked _—_ broken, and splinted badly." She turned to Bull. "A traditional punishment for young Crows."

Bull, for his part, seemed content to sit back, listen, and be fondled. He did not seem fazed. Maybe Ben-Hassrath in training went through even more horrible things, to make such perfect operatives, or he had seen so much violence that a bit of cruelty toward children did not register.

If your fingers were not healed by the time of your next mistake, they moved on to the next ones, until they got to your thumbs. When you lost use of all your fingers, you were deemed useless, and disposed of. By your fellow Crows-in-training, in many cases. He had told this to Leliana, years and years ago, but it was possible that Lady Montilyet knew this on her own. Most Antivan nobles did not wish to know how the leather was cured, so to speak.

"I had not thought," Zevran said, "to find a flower of my homeland at Skyhold, let alone such a well-informed one."

"Everyone knows the ambassador of the Inquisition is an Antivan," Lady Montilyet replied. "But I was apologizing _—_ the officer who hired you, Charter, had her suspicions, but she let you pass in order to deliver you up to Leliana once she'd figured out your intentions."

"And we've thwarted her ambitions."

"Leliana's gotta pick a successor sooner or later," Bull sighed. "She can't keep pitting those two against each other." His voice had dropped a half-octave, from Zevran's treatment. Lady Montilyet sat a bit straighter in her chair, and brushed a few strands of hair away from her face. Then she licked her lips, nervously. She wasn't unaffected by this.

"You and I both know," Lady Montilyet said, relaxing with visible effort, "that she has no intention of stepping down." She sounded furious _,_ and Bull reached over across the table to put his enormous hand on her arm.

It gladdened him, that Leliana had people who cared about her. Zevran had become as close as one could become to her during their travels, and there were, so far as he could tell, no hard feelings over Surana. Some Orlesian or another had stepped out of the shadows to dispatch a threat on his life on more than one occasion. None of them could be traced back to Leliana, of course. But he knew. The three of them, Zevran, Surana, and Leliana, were all that remained of the heroes of the Blight. The rest were dead, but for Sten, who was now well beyond their reach.

"I think it's time for us to get out of here. You can come with, if you like," Bull said, under the noise of the tavern, his voice a low rumble Zevran felt in his chest. "You know where my room is, Josie."

A-ha. _Josie_. They were more familiar than Zevran might have expected, or hoped.

"I hope you've found it to your liking," Lady Montilyet replied, with perfect blandness. Now she was torturing them all, for a laugh, before she left them to their own devices _—_ or to build up the excitement for when she yielded to their advances. Either was fine. "I could not get your usual quarters for you; Mistress Shokrakar is visiting Skyhold, and seems to think herself the ranking Tal-Vashoth, and therefore entitled to the largest bed in Skyhold. Something to do with seniority. I didn't ask."

"My bed's more than big enough," said Bull.

An exchange they'd had before. The beautiful Antivan who had heard, and dismissed, every flirtation under the sun. The Tal-Vashoth, who wanted her very badly, and had gone past flirtation to propositioning her openly, and was still rebuffed. A part of Zevran wished to sit back and see how this played out; a far wiser and more insistent part wished to see how much of his mouth he could get around the erection slowly rising under his touch.

"The Warden-Commander has no interest in niceties, does she," Lady Montilyet went on. "I suppose I must find you nicer lodgings, serah _—_ she _has_ found Skyhold to her liking, has she not?"

Surana had never expressed an opinion either way. "This was an Avaar fortress, I'm told," Zevran said. "So is Vigil's Keep. She finds it... familiar."

Lady Montilyet looked relieved, at that. "Good. I'm _—_ I'm glad."

As quickly as she'd begun it, her smooth line of patter faltered, puttered out. Her lips were parted, watching the two of them. Bull found Zevran's hand under the table, removed it. It was understandable. His trousers were enormous, but still not quite large enough to hide his erection.

"Come on, Josie," Bull said. "I think we should all go check out those green rooms. You know, see if they're suitable for the Warden-Commander and her husband."

"Yes, of course," Lady Montilyet said, and rose from her seat jerkily. "I'll show you the way. They're not far."

*

Leliana had given Surana a long, winding tour of Skyhold, which neither of their hearts had been in. It ended in the rookery. Nearly all of Leliana's birds were out delivering messages; the few that were left were quiet, sleeping, or preening themselves. Surana, at last, looked interested by something Leliana showed her, and ran a finger down one of their beaks, and sighed.

Her dark hair was shot through with grey, already. She had always been a small woman, but now, she was rawboned, almost gaunt. Leliana had heard tell of the small, furious, one-eyed barkeep, who'd tossed two carpenters out on their rears after they'd gotten too fresh with her, and had not made the connection.

"You're here to ask after the Orlesian Wardens," Leliana said. "We sent a messenger to Vigil's Keep to ask if the Fereldan Wardens might take them in, but there were only the arling's soldiers there."

"Where did you send them, after Adamant?"

Perhaps _—_ Leliana might be coy. Tease her, for not presenting herself to Leliana right away. Make up for so many years apart. "I think we both know that one does not _send_ a Grey Warden anywhere."

"Where."

No teasing, then. After Bull brought news of Zevran and Surana at Skyhold, Leliana had had all the files and reports from that time pulled, in preparation for this moment.

"My scouts followed them as far south as the Korcari Wilds," Leliana said, motioning to the box on the floor. "Everything we have. We thought they might mean to resettle at Ostagar, but the land is blighted there, and the fortress was never rebuilt. After a certain point, the trail simply vanished. It was the most peculiar thing _—_ they were not a large host, but they should not have disappeared like that."

"Were any of your people mages?"

Leliana consulted the list of agents who had followed the Wardens. "I sent a hedge mage with them. An experienced tracker."

"The Wardens would have had mages," said Surana. "Better ones. Circle-trained, and Dalish, too. You make a fireball big enough" _—_ there, a first crack in Surana's reserve, a fond little twist of her mouth _—_ "and show you've got enough of a death wish, they'll take you in. Was Clarel with them?"

Now they came to the point. Two Warden-Commanders, both Circle-bred, would have much in common. Had Surana had written to her for advice, or had Clarel reached out first? The Inquisition had not told the world the entire truth of what had happened at Adamant _—_ it was common knowledge that there had been demons, and a vile magister, and that the Herald had walked in the Fade, but not much more.

And Surana had come all this way to find out if her friend was still alive.

"No," Leliana said. "She sacrificed herself at Adamant to buy us time. She died a hero."

"Don't give me that line. No one dies a hero," Surana replied. "They just die. I'm thinking the Orlesians headed south, disguised their trail to throw you off, and headed back northwest again, toward the Arbor Wilds. They could be in the Brecilian Forest, laying low. Or they found an entrance to the Deep Roads and committed suicide by darkspawn."

"If it were you, what might you have done?"

A silence.

"I don't think you want the answer to that question," Surana said.

No. Leliana did not.

"Do you mean to follow them?" she asked, instead.

"I've got to get my own house in order," Surana scoffed. "My people have been holed up in the mountains for years. My arling is a mess. I don't have time to go chasing after some missing Orlesians."

There was no definite way know whether someone was lying, no matter how much Iron Bull bragged of his Ben-Hassrath training. Half of it was bluster, in any event _—_ why bother lying to a man who could tell whether you played him false by some tic in your cheek, a shift in your seat? _Bullshit_ , Cassandra would say, and had said.

Surana's tone was offhanded. Her jaw was tight, but Leliana suspected it was always tight, these days. She was still in her barkeep's tunic, but by the set of her shoulders, it might as well have been her armor. She carried an Inquisition-issue staff, as a replacement for the sword she'd taken from some unfortunate guard on the walls. A woman who meant to _go_ somewhere, and break heads when she arrived. To the Wilds, or to Amaranthine? The toss of a coin.

She had been fond of Surana, during the Blight. The feelings were so old that they might have belonged to another person, a person who told stories because she still hungered for applause, and sang around the campfire because her voice was beautiful, whether her compatriots wished it of her or not. Surana had seemed a creature from another world entirely, quiet and slow to smile, so that Leliana had _wanted_ to make her laugh. And she had. There had been a few short kisses. Zevran had simply played the game better, and won. Any jealousy Leliana might have felt was worn blunt by time and age.

Now Surana sat on Leliana's table. It put them at eye level. She had the faintest limp. It, and her cloudy eye, made her seem less a statue, more a person. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Anything."

"Why is this place still around? This Inquisition, any of it? Corypheus is gone. There are no civil wars on that need a peacekeeping force to step in and help civilians. From what I can tell, you're sending people out all over Thedas, but you're not _doing_ anything."

They were still, nominally, only a peacekeeping force, if a smaller one now than they had been. _They think I'm going to let them leg-shackle us to the Chantry?_ Adaar had said, at the Exalted Council. _They think I'm going to let them break up my kith? You get out there, and you tell them we're not going anywhere_.

"We had an agent _—_ one of the innermost circle," Leliana began, then hesitated. Surana raised her scarred eyebrow. "It turned out he was one of the old elven gods, and has pledged to bring down the Veil and destroy our world as we know it. As one does."

"'That one snooty elf bloke what disappeared after Corypheus got our boot up his ass,'" Surana said solemnly. "Zevran spoke of the stories of him. 'You know, lived in the library basement? Got up to his painting at all Maker-fucked hours of the night, so that you couldn't look at the dirty books without smelling turpentine?'"

"The very one," said Leliana. Of course that was what people remembered. Certainly, she had not forgotten the reek of his paints. Baron Plucky had become quite good at shitting in his gesso. "He is Fen'Harel, I'm afraid," she went on. "Please, if the Inquisitor returns, don't ask her how she lost her arm. She's still furious." (An understatement. Adaar meant to return the favor tenfold.)

"I don't mean to be here when she gets back," Surana replied. "Never know what might happen with two heroes of Thedas in one room. I hear you get the Champion of Kirkwall sniffing around from time to time, too. Three of us...."

"I take it you've never met Hawke. No one who had would ever mistake her for a hero," Leliana said, easing back in her chair to watch the torchlight play on Surana's scarred face. If she had had the promise of this woman's love to sustain her through her service as Left hand, through Justinia's death, through the fight against Corypheus, would she be who she was, today? Would duty and distance have made them hard together?

As though she knew what Leliana was thinking, Surana reached out to push Leliana's hood back and pick at her braid."You haven't changed your hair," Surana said. "After all these years. Still the same."

It was thinner. Less touched by grey than Surana's own. "If my hair is unchanging, so must be my tactics as a spymaster."

"That sounds like complete horseshit." Surana's deft fingers undid the braid, smoothed the hair back into place. "Does anybody with half a brain fall for that line?"

"No one worth mentioning, no."

"I always wondered what you'd look like with long hair, back then."

"I can't say I think much on it at all."

Of all the possible responses _—_ the fond look on Surana's face spoke for her. This, here, was the one woman in Thedas with absolutely nothing to fear from Leliana. She watched the expression soften further, as the back of Surana's hand ran down her cheek. Her hand was soft, smooth. The palms, assuredly callused. Possibly she was embarrassed by them, for all that the last traces of her upbringing in the Circle had, ostensibly, been crushed from her by the end of the Blight year. Their kisses had been rushed, back then. Kisses for relief, or gladness at victory, while Alistair (may he have found peace at the Maker's side) made faint gagging noises.

Even if Surana had joined her in her tent, back then, it would not have been like this: leisurely, slow. Surana stroked her face, over and over, now with her rough fingertips, tracing Leliana's crow's feet, the frown lines around her mouth. It was not like Leliana, to yield like this. To not chatter, or question, or attempt to take the reins, while she was being seduced. She allowed her eyes to flutter shut, and rested her forehead on Surana's; an old yearning, buried by much time and many lovers, kindled and caught flame in her. She looked at Surana from under her eyelashes. This was not the woman she'd saved in a filthy little Lothering pub. The eye was proof enough of that. She could only imagine what new scars she might find underneath Surana's tunic.

With a hand to the back of Leliana's neck, Surana pulled Leliana down to her level, to kiss the crown of her head. Her temple. The upward curve of her nose, her chin. The people they might have been would kiss like this, she thought, feeling one of Surana's ankles hook around her calf. A cautious meeting of lips, after a long time apart, and then falling on one another like they were starved women, and devouring one another might be enough to ensure they never went hungry again. Surana's tongue chased Leliana's into her mouth; Leliana sucked, hard, just once, then tore herself away.

"I take it Zevran knows you're here," Leliana said, doing her level best not to _pant_.

"He does," said Surana. She did not even look winded. "Does that bother you?"

Leliana marshalled her wits enough to think on it. No _—_ no. It would not stop her. When her sins were weighed, choosing not to meddle with a marriage would hardly tip the scale either way. She put her still-gloved hands to Surana's waist, felt her hard stomach, her jutting ribs. Wherever she had gone in search of a cure to the Calling, there had not been much food. Even during the worst of their travels, she had still had looked well-fed, her hair glossy, her brown skin still glowing with health. The health of a caged animal, but health nonetheless.

"No. We are old friends," Leliana replied, "rekindling an aquaintance. That is all."

Surana would not be at Skyhold long. That much was clear. They would pass through one another like wisps in the Fade. Leliana would savor this while she could, and go back to her life. And so she released Surana, stepped out of the circle of her arms, and removed her long gloves. She unhooked her tabard and let the chainmail fall to the ground, thankful that she had left the greaves off today, and only wore a pair of plain boots. Surana looked her up and down with a naked appreciation, a little half-smile, that she must have learned from Zevran.

"You were tall," she began, and let out a small _huff_. Not a sigh, not a laugh. "Enormous. That's why I started watching you _—_ the tallest human I'd ever seen, out of armor. For the first month, on the way to Denerim, you wore that jerkin. I'd watch your arms while you practiced your archery."

With that, Surana undid the clasps up the side and over the neck of her tunic, eased it off her shoulders. She wore nothing but a thin undershirt beneath it, nothing to disguise how her nipples peaked in the cold of the Rookery. Leliana stepped into her arms again, and Surana pressed her face into her neck, pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her jugular. That had been one of the things they had discovered, during their few nights of exploration: that Leliana could not get enough of this, and the memories rushed through her all at once _—_ only _—_ now, Surana knew to use teeth. How to, with heartbreaking precision, worry at the tendons there, suck and lick to ease the little hurts she'd made, and make a person arch and rut into the hand she offered between their legs.

Leliana wound Surana's short plait around her hand, held her where she was, stroking Surana's back with her other hand.

"In Orlais," Leliana managed, though her voice felt heavy as treacle, and her mind, twice as thick, "everyone I knew strove to be frivolous. And in the Chantry, we all strove for sincerity. You _—_ you were the first person I met who strove for nothing."

In response, Surana shoved her hand down Leliana's trousers, combed her fingers through the wiry hair there. She barely brushed Leliana's clit, and Leliana could think of no compelling reason not to chase her touch.

*

Zevran heard Surana come to the green rooms just after midnight. He had tried to teach her to walk silently; she had never gotten the trick of it. He heard her set something heavy down in the sitting room, then throw open the door to the bedchamber, where Zevran lay on his stomach, bare-assed to the world, doing his best to scrape his wits off the floor.

It had come to pass that Lady Montilyet and Bull were only playing at reluctance and seduction. As soon as they were in private, Josephine's _—_ Zevran had seen her naked, he could think of her as _Josephine_ now _—_ reluctance had evaporated, and she'd fallen on Bull with an enthusiasm that had made Zevran take a step back, lest he was intruding on some private moment between them. Lest he was an _excuse_ for a private moment between them.

 _No, no, hey_ , Bull had said, while he relieved Josephine of her clothes. _You. Where are you going?_

"How was our old friend?" Zevran asked, rolling onto his back to look up at Surana. He hadn't had the presence of mind to put his clothes back on. He couldn't think of a good reason to so much as sit up, even when he felt Surana's slight weight on the bed.

"Less vigorous than your new friends, clearly," said Surana. He felt her cool hand on his forehead, brushing a few strands of hair away from his face.

"And how do you know there was more than one?"

"You were going to try and outdo me. You always do."

It was true. If he was to be depraved for her enjoyment, he would be extravagant. "And Leliana?" Zevran asked.

"She told me what I wanted to know." Surana lay down next to him, on her stomach, peeking up at him with her good eye. "She's troubled."

 _We thought to ask you a few questions,_ Josephine had said, while Zevran's face was buried between her legs. She had not stopped talking since her clothes came off; Bull went about his business with a quiet intensity that reminded him, despite the differences in their size, of Surana. _I had not thought to do so in such a pleasant setting._ Bull, propped up on an elbow, slowly fingering Zevran's ass, had made a grunt of agreement.

"Yes, and we're all troubled. You're missing an eye. People will be trying to kill me for the rest of my life. She has people who love her, now, better than you or I ever could have."

 _You knew Leliana before she was Sister Nightingale_ , Josephine had said. _Tell us about her as she was during the Blight._

"You're right," said Surana. "We would have...."

Consumed one another. It would be unconscionably cheap of him to ask what had passed between her and Leliana, in that tower.

"Or it might have been wonderful," he said, before she could think too much on it. "Let me guess _—_ I should not get too used to this bed. We are leaving tomorrow morning, and I should be prepared to take back the Vigil, yes?"

A shame. If they stayed longer, he might have run into the famous Magister Pavus. If Iron Bull and one of his occasional lovers could exhaust him _—_ his entire middle ached from the number of times he'd come, and he was _used_ to keeping up with a Grey Warden's stamina _—_ he could only imagine what Bull and his husband could do.

In any event, Zevran was not even in a state to take back the blankets when she stole them during the night.

"A few more days," Surana said, gathering him up into her arms. "A week, even. And then we can go home. _Love-morsel._ "


End file.
